


Need

by tirsynni



Category: Batman - All Media Types, Justice League & Justice League Unlimited (Cartoons)
Genre: Gen, Hurt/Comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-03
Updated: 2016-09-03
Packaged: 2018-08-12 19:13:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,614
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7945930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tirsynni/pseuds/tirsynni
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Commissioner Jim Gordon always recognized what needed done, and the difference between Commissioner and "partner."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Need

The creature called itself a god.

It wouldn’t be the first – or last – to do so, but it was one of the few to do such a good job backing up its claims.

Commissioner Jim Gordon exhaled grey smoke and watched the lights of Gotham flicker back into existence in a wave of white and yellow. Below him, he heard his people cheer, heard the crackle of excited voices on his radio as everyone caught up on the monster’s defeat.

Slipping his cancer stick between his lips, Gordon shoved his hands in his pockets and stared into the shadows. Dammit, he felt like a wife waiting for her soldier to come home from war. And Barbara told him that he had no idea how it felt.

The smoke burned all the way down into his lungs. He held it, eyes feeling far too weak in the dark, before he lifted a hand and pulled his cigarette away. An exhale and the smoke dissipated slowly, grey on black.

Where was he?

News trickled slowly but surely, real information buried under speculation and gossip. The Justice League had come out in force, with Superman, Wonder Woman, and all of the other costumed heroes fighting against the monster. Before communications failed, Superman and Green Lantern were down and Batman had leaped into the fray. When communications returned, it reported Flash, Hawkgirl, and Martian Manhunter staying behind to help with the cleanup with no reports on the other heroes.

There was no word on Batman.

It was ridiculous waiting. This was practically another day for the Bat. He probably went to whatever cave he called home and cleaned off his suit with a disdain more fit for a cat than a bat.

This time, Gordon blew a perfect smoke ring. Two more hours until dawn.

He could wait.

Behind him, the spotlight remained dark. It was never a guarantee, anyway.

Gordon brought the cigarette back to his mouth, only to discover a snub left. He flicked it to the right, let it join the pile, and reached for another.

“Those are terrible for your health, you know.”

Wrong voice. Wrong everything. The sickness in his stomach grew like cancer, the voice within him screaming about clues or bombs or too still shadows howling anew.

Gordon’s hands didn’t shake when he lit another cigarette. “Less likely to kill me than most of Gotham.” This ring was wobbly, weak, and he didn’t give a damn that it brushed past Superman, as the…what? alien? … settled on the roof beside him. His otherness, usually bright and clean and untouchable, always grated at Gordon, but the bloodied tears in Superman’s uniform, which usually relaxed some skittish part of him, caused that little voice to scream. If that monster would even hurt _Superman_ —

For once, Superman went right to the point. Gotham was not friendly to outsiders, even if they were superheroes. “He was hurt. He wouldn’t let us see how badly. He took off after the battle but didn’t…” Hesitation. Unwilling to use the word ‘ _home_ ,’ maybe? Gordon heard that sentence too often regarding his people to not fill it in. “He wouldn’t welcome us looking for him but perhaps…”

“Understood, Superman.” The cigarette was still lit and burning bright when Gordon flicked it away. “Thank you for letting me know.”

Gordon didn’t watch Superman fly off. He had his own hero to find.

xoxoxox

In the end, it took him less than twenty minutes to find Batman. “I’m sure there are far better places a masked vigilante can go for medical care,” Gordon called, making sure his disapproval penetrated the darkest shadows of the warehouse.

To his right, a rat skittered. Before him, a familiar voice grunted. “It works.”

Gordon stepped into the warehouse. Each step echoed with a deep, mocking creak, too similar to a mad laugh for even the most desperate homeless person to try their luck. Almost twenty years ago, a madman had dragged over two dozen victims to this warehouse, drugging and maiming them. Their blood still painted the walls. The mob and drug lords whispered about ghosts, so of course Batman would use it as a haven.

Fresh blood glittered next to the old stains. Gordon cursed and rolled up his sleeves. “How bad?”

Soft breaths in the dark, terrifyingly audible. Gordon clenched his jaw. “I can handle it. Tell the Boy Scout I will be fine.”

Gordon scoffed, taking in the size of the splashes. “You can tell him later. What do you need?”

“…it broke my mask.”

Gordon froze. Dammit.

Batman waited, bleeding in the dark. No order to leave, no threats. Just information and allowing Gordon to make his own choices.

All right. Gordon exhaled and wished had had a cigarette, puffing smoke instead of air. “What do you need?”

Silence, cracked by stuttered breaths and the occasional wet drip of blood on concrete. “…a wound on my back. I can’t reach it.”

And apparently rough enough to impede his ability to drive home. Gordon nodded and walked into the shadows. “Stab or projectile?” he asked briskly. No batarangs stopped him when he stepped further into the dark. A silhouette appeared, black against black, hunched and still. Gordon stared at Batman’s chest. As his eyes adjusted, he saw the slow rise and fall. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw blood drip from Batman’s chin.

“Claw.”

Of course.

Gordon nodded and knelt beside Batman. The shadows hid the bandages and medical equipment nearly as much as they hid Batman. Only the occasional white flash led Gordon.

Batman’s suit absorbed the feeble light, but the blood still gleamed. So did the broken claw sticking out of Batman’s back. No wonder Batman couldn’t stay in the Batmobile until he made it to his hideout.

“There is a blade which will cut the suit around the claw. There is also a pressure bandage for when you get the claw out.”

Take the claw out. Gordon swallowed back nausea and the nicotine craving. He studied the dull silver claw in Batman’s back and put himself in the shoes of Batman’s partner. Right then, he wasn’t Gotham’s Commissioner. The Commissioner had nothing to do with the silence and darkness of Batman’s world. Batman’s partner belonged here, hands against a blood back and ignoring every first aid official lesson. If Batman said to do it, then his partner trusted him. If it failed, as his partner, Gordon also had the right to yell at the idiot.

Under Gordon’s hands, Batman didn’t feel like a metahuman. He felt hot and solid and wounded, the faint tremble of muscles betraying pain and stress. He felt all too human, and Gordon kept that to himself as Batman handed him a batarang.

The squeaking of rats and Batman’s heavy breathing accompanied the whisper of the batarang on the heavy suit. In the distance, sirens wailed a familiar lullaby.

“Ever miss your pre-Justice League days?” Gordon murmured.

Batman grunted. “Someone needs to keep an eye on those idiots.”

Gordon smiled.

The ragged curve of Batman’s suit fell to the ground with a damp thud. Gordon refused to think about it. Instead, he eyed the claw, similar to a cat’s if he ignored it was the size of his head. “This is going to hurt,” he said evenly.

Batman exhaled but said nothing. Less than a foot away, Batman’s face possibly yielded some clue how he was feeling, the pain of the claw, maybe exhaustion not just from the fight but working with a group of mismatched, overpowered people.

Gordon grabbed the claw and yanked.

Batman gasped, and Gordon felt the claw scrape what had to be bone. A rib. When he dropped the claw off to the side (DNA, evidence), Batman’s blood poured. Gordon fumbled with the pressure bandage, listening to his partner pant. The man’s blood drenched his hands.

Batman never said it, but Gordon believed he had another partner wherever he called home. Right then, smoothing and patting the bandage into place, blood under his nails and staining the hair on the back of his hands, Gordon hoped so.

“All right, partner?”

Batman huffed. The pressure bandage held, but the tremors continued. Gordon kept patting his back until he realized he was petting the man like he would his daughter when she had a nightmare. He jerked his hand back. Another huff, this one closer to a laugh.

“Th—”

“You don’t need to thank me,” Gordon cut off. He glanced at the blood on the floor and the blood staining his clothes. So much DNA, all going to the trash. He knew the rest of the mess would be cleaned up within hours. “Just take care of yourself.”

He stood and grimaced. His pants clung hot and wet to his legs. It was a good thing he had a trash bag to cover his seats. Commissioner and partner overlapping in the worst ways.

Batman didn’t move. Surprising. Gordon expected him to vanish even with a stab wound. “…you could look if you want.”

Gordon paused. The blood cooled on his hands and legs. He knew he would need to scrub under his nails. To his right, the damned claw caught a lone gleam of light. “…good night, partner.”

He didn’t look back as he left. Sunrise hinted at the horizon. If Gordon squinted, he could see the shadows and abandoned buildings at the city limits.

Batman drove just far enough to get home.

Gordon pulled out a cigarette and grimaced as the blood stained it. Almost home and then he could get his much deserved cigarette.

As he walked to his car, he heard a familiar rumble: “Good night, partner.”


End file.
